


Obvious

by GoldenSlumbers



Category: Demi Lovato (Musician), X Factor RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, X Factor USA 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenSlumbers/pseuds/GoldenSlumbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demi Lovato is not in love with Simon Cowell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obvious

Demi Lovato is not in love with Simon Cowell, for all the obvious reasons. But she likes to flirt. She can't help herself. And it's harmless, anyway, so what's the big deal?

She insults him, and he insults her back. He's old, she's annoying, he's an asshole, she's a brat. They say it to each other's face, repeatedly, till the words lose all meaning. They say it even while grinning ear-to-ear, his hand barely touching her knee, her fingers just grazing his arm.

Sometimes, they're in their own little world.

It's kind of weird, admittedly, when people start to insinuate that something's going on, as if it were in the realm of possibility. She laughs it off. She ignores the questions because there's nothing to tell. That would be disgusting, for all the obvious reasons.

Still, he becomes a sort of conquest. Not like _that_. It's silly, honestly, how she seeks his approval. Somehow, deep down, she's still that eight-year-old girl singing into a hairbrush in front of the television, demanding praise from the mean judge with the funny accent.

Sometimes, he'll say or do something that actually pisses her off, and she makes a point of ignoring him and pretending she doesn't give two shits about him. He notices immediately, of course. If she's not giving him constant attention, something must be up. Because that's what they've come to. He reads her so easily. He approaches her with this little smirk and this _look_ and just like that, she can't remember why she was mad.

Sometimes, she rolls her eyes and says, "I kind of hate you," and it's not a total lie.

He leans in close, his breath on her ear. "I know, sweetheart. I kind of hate you too."

Sometimes he's wearing one of his low-cut v-necks and even as she's yelling at him to put more clothes on, she finds herself staring at his chest. She has to force herself to look away, for all the obvious reasons. She mocks him, he laughs at her, and it'd be infuriating if she didn't enjoy it so much.

Sometimes she doesn't know what the hell she feels.

Like when he puts his hand on her waist and pulls her toward him, so forcefully, that she has to catch her breath.

Or when he leans in close enough for her to smell his cologne, and she's so aware of it, of _him_ , of his closeness, that she can't focus on anything else.

Or when she wears a skintight dress and catches him _staring_ , and she tells him to his face that he's a dirty old man. He shrugs as if calling her bluff: _if that were true, you wouldn't look so satisfied_.

Sometimes, she feels an actual ache in her chest because it hits her all at once. Because she doesn't want this to end. Because she's pretty sure it's not supposed to be this complicated. Because they'll never be anything other than what they are, and she's not even sure what that _is._ Because she can't say what she wants to say, so she insults him instead. Because he'd never take her seriously anyway. Because she's too young. Because he's too old. Because she should be disgusted by the thought of running her fingers through his stupidly parted, graying hair, or waking up beside him, but she's not. Because somehow, this is all his fault, and she resents him for it.

But then, sometimes, she nuzzles up against him, and he holds her close, and they fit together, and it makes _sense_. And suddenly it doesn't matter who sees them, or what anyone thinks, because who cares? She reaches for his hand, not needing permission; she knows they both conceded long ago. And he's sort of caressing her palm, reluctant to give in, as if they're fooling anyone. Or maybe they're just trying to fool themselves. But then their fingers interlock and the relief she feels is overwhelming. The lights and cameras and people fade away and she feels safe, and protected, and warm. Like it's the most normal, natural thing in the world, as long as she doesn't try to define it.

She never will, for all the obvious reasons.

Besides, Demi Lovato is not in love with Simon Cowell.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ridiculous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/634750) by [Elennare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elennare/pseuds/Elennare)




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